'Yes, thousands. Wistik affects great mystery, but he is a chatterbox who cannot keep his own secrets. He hoped to find the Book among men, and communicates his knowledge to every one who might be able to help him. And he has made many as unhappy as himself. They believe in him, and go forth to seek the Book with as much zeal as some use in seeking the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, give up their calling and their happiness, and shut themselves up among big volumes or strange matters and instruments. They risk their lives and health, they forget the blue sky and kindly gentle Nature--nay, even their fellow-creatures. Some find good and useful things, as it were gold nuggets, which they throw out of their holes on to the bright sunlit surface of the earth; but they do not themselves care for these; they leave them for others to enjoy, while they dig and grub on in the dark without cessation or rest. They are not seeking gold but the Book. Some lose their wits over the work, forgetting their object and aim, and becoming mere miserable dotards. The sprite has made them quite childish. You may see them building up little castles of sand, and calculating how many grains more are needed to make them fall in; they make little watercourses, and estimate precisely the bends and bays the water will make; they dig trenches, and devote all their patience and reason to making them very smooth and free from stones. If these poor idiots are interrupted in their work and asked what they are doing, they look up with great importance, shake their heads and mutter, 'Wistik, Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that little foolish Wood-Sprite. Have nothing to say to him, Johannes.'
But Johannes stared before him at the swaying, creaking trees. The smooth brow above his clear childish eyes puckered into furrows. He had never before looked so grave.
'And yet--you yourself said--that there is such a Book! And oh! I am quite sure that in it there is all about the Great Light, whose name you will not tell me.'
'Poor, poor little Johannes!' said Windekind, and his voice rose above the dizzy clamour of the storm like a peaceful hymn, sounding very far away. 'Love me, only love me with all your might. In me, you will find even more than you wish. You shall understand that which you cannot conceive of, and be, yourself, what you desire to know. Earth and heaven shall be familiar to you, the stars shall be your neighbours, infinitude shall be your dwelling-place. Love me! only love me! Cling to me as the hop-bine to the tree, be true to me as the lake is to its bed--in me alone shall you find rest, Johannes.'